Good-bye, Etta James

I'm reposting this because a nice lady died. This is way back from when my blog was a baby (November 2008) . . .


I was a hostess at a Chinese restaurant my senior year in high school that, in its heyday twenty years before, used to get a lot of celebrity customers. There were pictures of the owner with Jack Lemmon and Bill Clinton and a bunch of other famous people all over the walls of the entrance.


My job was easy. Eat as many fortune cookies as I wanted and consume gallons of free Sprite every night. Oh, and seat people. You got five people? You get a five seat table. You got two people? You get a two seat table. It worked pretty well and whoever thought of that system should have gotten a raise or maybe free steamed rice plus free fortune cookies.


Except there was one time it didn't work, and it was this lady and her two sons who came in and always wanted a five people table. But there were only THREE of them. She was a pretty lady (large, though--she didn't back away from the egg rolls), light-skinned black, what the old folks call cafe au lait. I would always gently suggest a smaller table (I don't know why because they always came mid-week when it wasn't busy anyway but I'm uptight like that, shut up), but they just smiled and took their same table they always did.


One night when they were leaving, the lady says, "I'll bring you one of my pictures to put on your wall of fame," and I smiled blankly and nodded, anxious not to disturb the crazy lady, because why would I put her picture on the wall when she didn't even understand about five people tables? I think she saw through it, though, because the next week when she came, she said, "You watching President Clinton's inauguration?" (This was the first one, because I'm old.)


And I said, "Yes" because I had Bush vs. Dukakis debates in middle school for fun (because I'm old), so of course I was watching the inauguration. 


She said, "Okay, well, look for me, because I'm singing."


I said, all perkily, "Oh, are you in a choir?" because that's why any large black lady would be singing at the inauguration, right? (I'm so embarrassed by that question now).


She said, "You just watch on Friday night and you'll see me sing."


I rushed home after my shift that night and made my dad turn off Star Trek and switch it to the inaugural coverage. I said one of our customers was going to be singing that night, maybe in a gospel choir. We watched for about a half an hour, and then, the lights went low, a single spotlight came on and lit up my customer in a magnificent white gown as the emcee announced..."Etta James!"


Aaaagh! I knew who Etta James was. I just didn't know that's who was sitting at my table once a week, who I'd been trying to move to another table every time. And you may think you don't know Etta James, but you do. Oh, yes, you do. Beyonce is playing her in a movie coming out soon.


Check out the clip below (just wait for the first two words of the song. You definitely know it).









Etta Freaking James!


After that, it was, "Hey, Ms. James. It's good to see you, Ms. James. Why don't you come sit at the five people table, Ms. James?"


Coolest celebrity sighting EVER. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

I need a mom.

I was reading all the online stuff yesterday about how my baby is 24 weeks along now and she's as big as a (giant) mango and she can blink her eyes in Morse code if only I could see it to interpret what she means and she now has very strong opinions about the rompers she sees me buying her and the dinner I ate last night.

I realized that because my babies come early (two and five weeks early so far) that she's going to be here PDQ. We're prepared, mostly. She got stuff in the way of clothes and we're good with a crib, etc. We'll have a larger stroller by then and I'm switching our travel swing (which did nothing for Baby G) to one that goes back-and-forth AND side to side. I'm going to raid one of our retirement accounts next month and stock up on diapers and wipes. I figure if we live on nothing but Ramen the year Kenny turns 72, we should be able to afford the first month of Pampers Swaddlers, no problem.

So she's all set, or nearly.

But I'm not.

When Little J came ten years ago, I had just moved into a new place the day before. Nothing was unpacked. I didn't even have a working phone. I had to roll into the grocery store belly first at 2 a.m. to wake my doctor up and find out that yes, dummy, that was your water breaking. Go to the hospital.

My mom was on a plane within two hours of me calling her and at the hospital by the time they started my epidural. She was there through the delivery and when Little J and I got home, she had unpacked my whole house for me. It was a little house and I didn't have much stuff, but it still made it easier to breathe.

She put off work for an extra week to stay with me because (as she told me later) I wasn't exactly into picking the baby up to do anything besides feed him at first. But then everything was okay.

When Baby G was born a couple of years ago, my sister happened to be here on a fluke visit so that she was ready to jump in even though he was five weeks early. My sister is a very, very good person to have around if you're ever in the hospital for any reason from a tonsillectomy to open heart surgery. She was nearly as good as having my mom there.

But this time...

I don't know. I just need a mom. I need someone who's going to show up for a few days in a Mary Poppins-ish manner and play with my kids and either

1) Ignore the fact that some of the messy spots in my house have been neglected since before I was pregnant and either
      a) pretend like I do that they don't exist or
      b) clean them and never say a word to me about it because um, yeah, my  mom would know exactly who taught me to keep house that way

2) Scold me for having certain messy spots in my house but somehow manage to not judge me in the least and then either
      a) ignore them, like I do or
      b) clean them and never say a word to me about them

She would warm up the meals the Relief Society brought over for me and change Tiny E's tenth diaper of the day like it's her greatest delight because she can clearly see after the first nine, I've lost my enchantment with the whole process for the day.

She would take the boys to the park while I slept with Tiny E, knowing that Baby G thinks my naps mean I'm prone so we can start wrestling. She wouldn't care that Baby G gets a couple of Nickelodeon marathons while I stare into space, sleep-deprived. And after a few days she would realize I'm gaining a little traction and she'd go home, knowing that I've rejoined the land of the living and I'm child-cuddling and bum-wiping abilities have been fully restored.

My aunt, who is more my aunt even by marriage than she could be by blood, flew out from Illinois last time for a weekend a couple of months after Baby G was born. There was just something about knowing that she was willing to do that for me that made everything bearable, filled the gap a little. But she is kicking butt and taking names in  her new nursing program and I'd put her right back on a plane and ship her back if she tried to come out this time because she needs to be there, not here.

I miss my mom. Do you think if I tore this blog post into small pieces and threw it into the fireplace that the wind would whisk it away and suddenly she would appear in a smart coat with a carpet bag the morning I go to the hospital? Because I need her.

Dear Self: Snap out of it.

I don't know what kind of day I'm having. I'm sifting the clues, searching for evidence.

Here's what I have so far:

1. I put on my workout clothes but there is absolutely no chance I'm going to the gym. I don't have the faintest whiff of an inkling of a desire to be there.

2. I had good granola for breakfast but feel icky.

3. I turned the TV on for Baby G first thing this morning and feel guilty about that but not guilty enough to turn it off.

4. I have the blahs. I don't want to think too hard about why because I'm not in the mood to soul search. Then again, I almost never am. Not good.

5. My bedroom is a disaster and has been for a week and I still can't make myself clean it even though I know I would feel better.

6. I don't like what I posted yesterday. I think my internal editor took that chapter out in the first place not because it interrupted the narrative (which it did) but because it's measurably weaker than the rest of the novel. Reading it makes me feel discouraged.

7. Writing this list of clues makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up.

8. Maybe I will do something nice for myself and clean my bedroom after all.

9. That Baby G has been loving on me lots. That's a little bit of sunshine.

10. I guess I know what kind of day I'm going to have: the kind I choose to have.

I'm going to flip on some What Not to Wear and rediscover the carpeting in my bedroom. I bet it's under all that stuff. In fact, all that stuff has probably kept the carpet nice and clean so when I do rediscover it, I won't even have to vacuum it.

Peace out, homies. I'm taking this show on the road.

Well, upstairs anyway.

David McCullough Rocks.

My goodness, it feels like a long time since I've been here. I've had plenty of ideas of things to write about and I've stuck them all in my "ideas" folder. None of those ideas are begging to be posted just yet.

I guess I'm floating on a happy cloud of irresponsibility, feeling the need to do nothing at all. Except take care of the baby. And cook. And clean. And grocery shop. But not blog.

Still, that little tickle is at the base of my neck. That's where it is when I feel like I need to blog. Fiction writing tickles more at the base of my spine which is why there's a groove scarily approximate to the dimensions of my butt on our sofa. It's my writing spot.

So...the tickle.

Of all the things I made a mental note to blog about, like how my toddler's sheer delight in burping is an argument for nature over nurture and about my game show philosophy (those two things aren't related), I am drawn to....

A seven hour mini-series. My husband and I just finished watching the final installment of HBO's John Adams, which was just tremendous. But then we watched the forty minute documentary about the author of Adams' biography, David McCullough, that followed. It made me happy. He's 80-ish, dapper, with a twinkle in his eye. And as he talked about what and why he writes, it was delightful to see how much genuine excitement he felt about his subjects from the Brooklyn Bridge to Harry Truman. The author himself has won presitigious awards and worldwide acclaim, but what he really gets excited about are the stories he tells. His subjects in history become real to him. He talks about how he comes to know each of his subjects as well as family, to know what each will do in any given situation. His subjects are real, but he must use the greatest tools in the fiction toolbox to really make them come alive for his readers: imagination, vivid language, an understanding of human nature, and a fine balance between details and the bigger picture.

I got so sad as I watched. Because I really want to hang out with David McCullough now and I'm sad I never will. I want to hang out with David mcCullough more than I want ice cream, new shoes, or a minivan.

That dude is cool.

Funk Busting

Me=1, The Funk=0. Because I rock like that.

I hate noogies (see yesterday's post), so my only choice when The Funk snuck up and gave me one was to spin around Jackie Chan-style and then make an ugly dubbed martial arts film bad guy face and deliver a swift karate kick to The Funk's crotch, because I hate being snuck up on.

So I did.

It all happened very quickly with my lightning fast skills, but if you put the whole thing on slow-mo, then watched it over and over again, it would have looked like this:

I said a prayer because I forgot that yesterday morning. Then I hummed that "Don't Forget to Pray" hymn while loading my baby into the stroller and rolling my older son's bike out of the garage. I found the song pleasant but strange because I'm not a hymn hummer. However, since it stuck with me, I went with it and I think it had the Barry Manilow effect that Crash Test Dummy described in this post and it weakened The Funk's resistance.

Then, I fired up The White Stripes on my iPod, and although I've never really tried a White Stripes/hymn cocktail before...it worked. We all headed down to the park where my oldest leapt from his bike to roll around in the sand (maybe removing tics? I dunno) and I power-walked the park paths and threw in occasional bouts of bench stepping to bust my glutes and some tricep presses because I am soooo never gonna get RS arm because....eww. Sorry, but ew.

Then The Funk was in retreat but I wanted it eviscerated. It gave me a NOOGIE. The ONLY appropriate response is total annihilation. So when we got home, I loaded the boys into the car and took them to get fro-yo, which I believe is often medically prescribed in cases like this.

Or should be.

Anyway, we were celebrating James's awesomeness of getting a perfect score on his FOURTH GRADE !!!!MULTI-VARIABLE EQUATION!!!!! math test (kill me now or sixth grade math will), a feat not accomplished since his first grade second trimester benchmark test, so he loaded up his cup with everything bright and unnaturally colored and I didn't say a word. In fact, I just got myself some pumpkin and cheesecake goodness topped with a touch of chocolatey, nutty badness and enjoyed a visit with my kids.

The Funk was scared.

Then I took a short nap which was probably the final nail in The Funk coffin, but I wanted to dance on The Funk's grave. So I got all dolled up in a super cute cardigan and newish jeans, dropped the kids off with my brother, and drove out to watch Twilight with one of my BFFs. Didn't really want to see the movie but was sooooo glad I did as I got to develop a spontaneous and amazing impersonation of Evil James (the vampire, not my math genius kid), which made my friend Jaymee both mad and laugh at the same time. Me: does James imitation which requires no words, only piercing over-acted stares. Jaymee: (hissing) Stop! (Giggling). Seriously! (More giggling).

Then to commemorate the battle victory, we went to Ooka, a Benihana style hibachi place that they don't have out my way and I did some serious damage with superawesome noodles and filet mignon, followed by a stroll through the bookstore.

Yeah, The Funk is so done.

'Ere you left your room this morning...

Have you ever been sitting and minding your own business, maybe eating a Twinkie or a nice bag of Funyuns, when The Funk pounces on you, grabs you by the throat, throws you to the ground, gives you a noogie, and then does an obnoxious, cackling happy dance?

No? It's just me, then.

I hate The Funk. I have a great few days to look forward to. I get to leave the kids in capable hands this afternoon and take off for a movie and dinner with one of my dearest friends. I get to spend tomorrow with family, eating chili and having a talent show. I get to spend Thursday with more family, eating myself into a blissful food coma. You think that'd be enough to fight The Funk.

But it's got me.

I hate it when this happens. Because I'm not prone to depression, I sometimes feel less capable of coping when I'm wallowing in a day or three of the blues. In the grand scheme of things, it goes away quickly; it's just that I resent The Funk being here at all.

I don't know where it comes from. Maybe it was not having enough comments on my blog post yesterday, or not having the butter pecan fudge I made come out exactly right, or it could be having three different families reject our invitation to hang out at the river this weekend because of stuff like "jobs." Pish! Or my nephew not being able to come now because of a "staph infection." Pish tosh!

Eating chocolate will only make The Funk worse because I'll feel bad for my lack of will-power. No escaping into a book because I'll be neglecting my kids. No shopping because I did that last weekend. I'll go work out and hope to release those endorphins and try not to dwell on the fact that I hate doing weights.

Or....maybe I could just pray. I guess I forgot that this morning.

Huh...

I changed my mind.

I was feeling all bummed this morning (just a post-hectic day letdown), but I wasn't enjoying the bumming out so I decided not to be bummed anymore. And yes, the ability to make this choice pretty much any time I want to (knock on wood) is a total luxury and gift, and believe me, I know it. But I spent a morning not doing much of anything. I ate my oatmeal, played a mindless computer game (think Tetris but with fish) and even cleaned part of my desk off. Then I had a healthy lunch and decided that I was over being cranky so now I'm not.

Which means I'm going to do my Friday Favorites after all, but since I already have like, seventeen posts up today, it's a short one. Like about just over one foot tall, short. That's short.

Today's Friday Favorite is (I'm going to say I'm doing a drumroll here just to build the excitement but I'm really not because I'm having a lazy Friday and although I'm totally a goofball, I'm still not going to do it when it's just me in the livingroom because even I don't need to be entertained that much):

Favorite pictures of baby G. From Tuesday. I have different favorite pictures from yesterday. But remember when I was relieved to discover that the fact that he wants to take his clothes off all the time makes him developmentally normal (and I'm not telling you who else in this house passes that milestone on a regular basis because, well, I think it's funny but for you....ew. I actually do recognize that you would not want to know this. Yay, internal filter!)?

I think I should rename him Mullet because he's business on top:

But a party on the bottom:

I have no idea how he did this, but my husband says it probably is the best way to enjoy eating ribs. Baby G is a barbecue-eating savant to have already figured this out.

So glad my older son pointed out this little indiscretion on baby G's part before the rest of the diners in the area could be scandalized. Although I pretty much always think no pants is funny.

Oh, and don't forget to enter my little giveaway two posts down. I'm not linking to myself again because did I mention? It's lazy Friday.

I feel discouraged...

Can you guys enter my contest below? Pretty please?

Because I'm kind of sad no one's entering and don't feel funny or introspective enough to produce a list of Friday Favorites.

I'm going to eat oatmeal and see if a hot breakfast cheers me up while not thinking about our looming Cub Scout field trip this afternoon and pretending that I don't have five places to be at this morning. I'm staying in my cave until the Cubs say I have to come out.

Oh, yeah, and I'll pick up my one kid from school. Because I like him.